Icarus Down the Railroad Tracks
by LeDbrite
Summary: "Cause I'm with you till the end of the line." Who is he? Where did he come from? How did he get here? Only a brief profile in a museum can give hints to these questions, sending him back to where it all began. To the man before the assassin: Bucky Barnes, the man he should've been. The man he isn't.
1. Once

A/N: After watching CA: TWS for the first time, I had to do a story about Bucky. Surprisingly, special thanks goes to my mom for accidentally finding and reading this story while it was still a WIP.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

*Note* Minimal editing 2/8/15

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><p><strong><em><span>Chapter 1: Once<span>_**

**"It is never too late to be what you might have been."** –George Eliot

Once… A word that is used to begin many classic stories, memorable tales that are told in childhood and remains for life. It is also a word that means that which isn't there anymore. Something that once was. Something that is now gone. A word that describes me.

Once, I was someone. Once, I was a friend. Once, I lived.

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><p><em><span>"People are gonna die…"<span>_

_"I'm not gonna fight you…"_

_"Bucky, you've known me your entire life."_

_"You're my friend…"_

_"'Cause I'm with you till the end of the line."_

_"YOU ARE MY MISSION!"_

_"You know me!"_

_"No, I don't!"_

_"Bucky?"_

_"Who the hell is Bucky?"_

_"There was a man… I knew him…"_

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><p>Nine months had passed since the day he'd visited the Smithsonian and seen the Captain America exhibit. Since the day he'd read the display on Bucky Barnes. That was the day he disappeared.<p>

From conception to birth, it takes approximately nine months. In the same amount of time, Bucky Barnes had slowly been reborn, and the Winter Soldier diminished. Memories had gradually risen from the abyss of his mind, broken, fragmented, but greatly welcomed as each meant he was another step closer to figuring out who he was. During the early days of the journey, sleep had been an enemy, insomnia a companion, and the fear of losing it all (of having it all erased again and returning to nothing), had been the ever driving force that kept him going. Had kept him two steps ahead of everyone who searched for him.

Incognito was a hard state to maintain, but the Winter Soldier knew how to survive, moving with instinct-like abilities and never looking back. Those were the things that had kept him alive. A self-applied haircut, pedestrian clothes acquired from a thrift shop, and money that he'd stolen. It'd all been too easy for the Soldier, but necessity called for it and there was no room for moral qualms. He didn't have much moral sense left anyway. But it had all worked to bring him here, to this little town a scant thirty miles from where he'd grown up.

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><p>...oOo...<p>

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><p>The rain pelted down, a grey, steady drizzle that brought steam rising from the baked asphalt of the street. Ducking his head, turning the collar of his jacket up against the drops, Bucky wryly considered it lucky that he didn't have his cybertechnic arm. The process of caring for it after it got wet was painful, to say the least. But it'd been too recognizable for him to be able to keep it and hope to remain inconspicuous.<p>

The downside was how defenseless he felt without it.

At the edge of his peripheral vision, he was aware of the shopkeepers closing for the day, the town so small that they knew there wouldn't be any more business to be had. If he looked at the right moment, he could catch the flash of a hand flipping a sign, an unknown face peering at the weather, or barely discern the tinkle of a bell as the doors closed. The lights from the shop windows glowed invitingly through the rain, warm and welcoming, the only thing that couldn't be locked up, and creating a sharp contrast against the weather.

When had he experienced a rainy day from the comforts of home? Had he hated it when it when the skies were dark? Maybe he had played cards with Steve while the rain tapped chill fingers upon the window panes. Or had he been the type to run outside and let it fall on his face? Or maybe, he had sat on the porch, enjoying the tangent smells the rain brought, the cool brush of air, and the soft whisper of its sound.

To his mind, he could bring no recollecting memory, such a small moment like that being too inconsequential to stick. But of the possibilities he'd pondered, he liked the last one best. A young Bucky, perched on the porch railing, completely relaxed with his eyes trained on the rippling puddles, that was the image he wanted to believe had been true at one time.

"Lovely weather, isn't?" a voice commented, worn with age but still clear from constant use.

Glancing over his shoulder, warily half turning so that the empty left sleeve of his jacket wasn't as noticeable, he met the gaze of the old man who'd spoken to him. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a vest buttoned over his rotund middle, and half-circle reading glasses perched on the end of his nose with a swatch of pearled grey hair swept tidily across his forehead. He looked harmless enough, and Bucky could easily believe that he was a shopkeeper due to the slippers that covered his feet and the door to the book store left open behind him.

"You've been standing there for several moments," the man explained, everything about his manner free from any sign of being the type to pass swift judgment.

"Lost track of time, I guess," Bucky answered ruefully, allowing a faint smile to touch his face, though it only lasted a second.

"Time has a funny way of doing that," he remarked, holding a hand out from underneath his shop awning to catch the raindrops on his palm.

More than you know, Bucky thought silently, images of a partially lived life stirring at the back of his mind. Water dripped down his collar, cold against the warm flesh, where the hairs tickled the back of his neck. It had grown long again, since he'd cut it, the ends ragged and uneven from the hasty job he'd done, but it served its purpose well in making him less familiar to those who searched for him.

"Seen battle?" was the next question, followed by a nod toward Bucky's left side.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, voice going hollow as he distanced himself from the conversation, wariness returning to full force. Information of himself wasn't something he could afford to give out. His identity was too easy to trace once one knew enough about him. And who knew how many agents SHIELD or HYDRA had around.

Each second of freedom had been dearly paid for, and he was willing to err on the side of paranoia to keep it.

"What's your name son?" the old man asked, looking at him with a friendly eye, unaware of the unease Bucky felt.

"James Winter," Bucky lied, wiping the damp strands of hair back, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat to refer to his history by combining the two names. But it was the alias he had decided to use. Similar, yet different, enough to not be easily associated with him. A dangerous gamble though, if anyone looking for him caught scent of it.

"Well, you just come on in and dry yourself. I dare say this spell of rain will dally for a bit, and you're like to need somewhere to wait out," he invited, leading the way into the gently lit interior of the book store. Casting a keen eye over his shoulder, he added, "Unless, you have some place else you're a aiming to be."

"Thanks," Bucky murmured, following cautiously, not answering the subtly phrased question. Shoving the soaked baseball cap into his pocket, the faded and frayed fabric giving testament to its use, he rubbed his hand abruptly through his hair to straighten it somewhat. Eyes automatically scanning the room, making note of every possible exit, and where an enemy could hide, he committed it to memory, a precaution. It was the same wherever he went; he needed to know the lay of a place to ensure that he could escape if something happened.

The smell of paper filled the air, the warm, comforting, quiet that books provided, encompassing the shop in a feeling similar to that of a library except cozier. Shelves divided the space, carrying row upon row of books on their wooden fixtures, small alcoves tucked snuggly into the corners for reading, and each fully furnished with mish-mash of couches and reading lamps.

Much too concealed for his taste, yet reassuring, in the quiet of the shop, it'd be too easy to pick up any sound that was out of place.

Chatting away conversationally, the shopkeeper commented, "I would've fought in World War II, I wanted too, but I was too young," the bell above the door giving a sharp jingle as he closed it against the damp. Returning to his guest, adjusting his glasses, he added with a small smile, "And if you'd believe it, I was too old by the time the next war came around."

"You should be grateful," Bucky replied gravely, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably under his wet coat. How many of his friends had died in the war? Faces that he didn't remember. And those who had survived? Would death have claimed them by now, or would they be well into old age, like the man standing before him?

The man nodded ruefully in agreement, casting a glance at Bucky's left sleeve again, as if to make note to be more careful with his words. "I didn't mean anything by it son, I'm sorry if I caused offense. It's just with all the media on Captain America, it makes me morose." Shaking his head and snapping his fingers, he suddenly changed the course of conversation. "Forgive me, ah, Winter, you said? I'm Eli Gibson."

Accepting the proffered hand, a polite, if lackluster, smile made an appearance. "It's fine," he mumbled.

Giving a genuine smile in return, Eli pushed his glasses up again, looking once more to the rain, and went back to the register, retrieving the book he had evidently set aside when he had stepped outside. "A book is the best way to enjoy a dreary day," he mused aloud. "If you need any help finding a certain genre, just let me know."

"Thanks," Bucky replied. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he moved slowly through the quaint shop, scanning the book titles carefully. He barely acknowledged them though. Head down, using only his eyes to scan the room and double check the exits, he noted that he was the only customer there.

Aside from the front door, there was another door in the back (probably led to the back room, and then outside), and a narrow flight of stairs that wasn't discernible at first sight due to being in a corner. Judging by the how the boards had been worn down, they led to the living quarters. A few windows, along with the shop front window, allowed natural light to filter in, which on a day like this wasn't much.

Satisfied, Bucky selected a book at random, grabbing the first thing that his hand touched, which turned out to be a book on great American achievements during the last fifty years. A book that by coincidence would be useful for him to read. Claiming the reading nook opposite of the front door, habitually sitting with his back to the wall, angled so that he could view the entirety of the shop and the street through the front window without moving.

Propping the book open on his lap, his gaze never strayed to the page. Brows furrowing slightly, staring unseeing at a fixed point, no thoughts came to mind, body unconsciously falling into standby mode. He could wait out the rain; let the clouds give up their burdens before continuing on his way. For the two weeks before he came here, he'd been wandering aimlessly; having visited the destinations he'd needed to, but now wasn't sure where he could go. He had decided that the next step was to gather information about his past, concrete facts that he hadn't otherwise encountered and might trigger memories that had hitherto been hidden. Steve was the ideal source, but he'd been on the run for too long, was still too messed up, to consciously seek human help.

Disengaging, forcefully pulling out of the Winter Soldier's mindset and returning his body to mobility, his eyes found the page, slowly processing the words there. Rolling the muscles in his shoulders, the metal plate on his left side was an uncomfortable reminder of what he was missing. To make up for the weakness, his right arm had ample room to maneuver should the need arise.

Letting the book absorb his attention, feeding his mind with input that HYDRA had neglected to, it whiled the hours away, regaling him with tales of the advances of technology and the superiority of the modern age. Funnily enough, the author had made a point of ignoring the effects SHIELD, HYRDA, the Avengers, basically anything that was remotely superhuman, had had in the world's advancement, giving Bucky the impression that the author had been of an older generation and was ridiculously prejudiced. To the point where not even the miraculously ahead-of-its-time technology of the Starks' was mentioned. But he could read through the disregard of the author, having learned enough from his travels, to decipher where those pieces fit in.

Sighing, closing his eyes, hands tightening on the book, different words swam to the forefront of his mind. Words that had given him a glimpse into the person he'd once been, given him somewhere to start, and left him feeling sick from the uncontested confirmation within them.

...

[**A FALLEN COMRADE**

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

_"Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted…"_

_"…and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front."_

_"…his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than childhood friend, Steve Rodgers, now Captain America."_

_Reunited, Barnes and Rodgers led Captain America's newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes' marksmanship was invaluable..."_

Bucky Barnes

1916-1944]

...

Fragments from the museum profile on him surfaced sporadically, telling a broken tale, though he had memorized the entirety of the two paragraphs. He had been twenty-eight when he'd fallen. He had had three siblings. And Captain America had been telling him the truth when he said that they were friends. It was the realization that HYDRA had had the perfect base to begin with that sickened him.

_…Marksmanship was invaluable… An excellent athlete… Will was strong…_

All it'd taken was HYDRA's experimentation to enhance those features, make him a super soldier, and outfit him with a bionic arm that was impervious to most weapons.

Memories running rampant, still concentrated on the information from the Smithsonian, there was another statement that stood out before the others.

[_"When Bucky Barnes first met Steve Rodgers on the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond."_]

Beyond. How much farther would that take him? What paths lay in store for him and Steve? And where would it leave them? Whoever had written the statement had no idea how truly they had spoken.

Already the tie between them had taken them beyond their natural lifespans, given their bodies abilities that few could hope to match, and somehow their friendship had survived even when HYDRA had done everything in its power to turn him into their weapon. Through unseen designs, which no one could've guessed at, he had always been one step behind Steve.

_…I'm with you till the end of the line…_

A cacophony of noise coming down the stairs jarred his attention. Straightening up, spine going stiff, the book slipping closed from the motion, his right hand had already securing his concealed weapon before he was consciously aware of it. Releasing it, the muscles taking a moment to relax against their training as reasoning washed through his limbs with cool logic.

"Grandpa, I can take over on register now. Why don't you go and sit down?" the teen called, her tone announcing her boredom at the very idea as she finished tying her hair up into a ponytail.

Obediently stepping aside, Eli didn't voice opposition as he picked up his book and joined Bucky in his nook. "It'll be closing time soon," he mentioned, giving Bucky a head's up, taking the chair across from him.

Quick to gauge subtle gestures, Bucky noted that the shopkeeper's fingers moved restlessly over the spine of his book, indicating that there was something on his mind, though he'd opted to not talk about it right now. But it was only a matter of time, and he warily braced himself for it, fist reflexively clenching as if he could ward off the inevitable.

"Thanks for telling me," Bucky answered lowly, his gaze moving to the window, noticing for the first time how much darker it'd become outside. Among all the other things he'd subconsciously been keeping track of, the premature dusk was only another detail brought on by the rain, but hadn't immediately registered.

"You like it?" the old man asked, mildly curious, nodding at the closed book in Bucky's lap, another vein of small talk.

He gazed at the cover blankly, trying to switch gears in his brain and remember the portion he had read. "It's interesting," he replied dubiously, recalling only that the author had avoided several major points.

"Most people tend to disagree with it," Eli offered, unconcerned, mistaking the tone of Bucky's response. "Wouldn't bother to carry it if the school district didn't insist on using it. Something about giving a realistic view."

"Realism contains many disagreeable things, and the facts not given in here are some of those things," Bucky returned quietly. "It's better to accept the truth." Cold determination coiled in his stomach, a response to the under lying tension under their words. They couldn't continue to dance around the subject; it would have to come up eventually.

There hadn't been any signs to alert him to the possibility of a trap, nothing to trigger his senses. But there was a saying that he should've remembered: Never look a gift horse in the mouth. What motive did this old man have for inviting him in to begin with? Harmless as it had been, it could've have been a pretense, a way to draw him in while an accomplice, maybe the teenager, maybe someone else in the back, contacted the others.

"My opinion is near the same as yours, but it's not my place to question schooling. I left the system years ago," Eli replied absently. Rifling the pages with a thumb, the gesture tender, his tone was blunt for his next question, finally voicing the thought that'd been on his mind. "Son, do you have a place to stay?"

"I was planning to reach the next town before stopping for the night," Bucky answered evasively, taken aback but not letting his guard down. It hadn't been what he'd been expecting, but it offered a tentative hope that the circumstances were still as innocent as they appeared, though he was loath to be pacified so easily.

A stubborn rigidity settled upon Eli's features, demanding sensibility. "It's not my place, Lord knows I know that, but if you're traveling by foot, you won't reach Laws Town before dark. As for lodging, I don't know what you were thinking to do, but they're in the same boat as us. You'd be just like every other tramp having to face the elements. The least I can do is offer to let you stay."

"No, it's kind of you, really, but- No thanks," Bucky replied swiftly, insistently, masking his alarm. The old man had no way of knowing what a dangerous offer that was. While Eli might not pose a threat to Bucky, the Winter Soldier was unpredictable. And he couldn't risk bringing that upon them, or causing the shopkeeper and his family to get caught in the crossfire if HYDRA or SHIELD found him here.

"I'm inviting you as a guest," Eli cut in, all patience gone as he argued his point. Puzzlement resting on his face, not understanding Bucky's reasons, he added, "If nothing else, at least join us for supper."

Rubbing the back of his neck, muscles taunt, instinct told him to refuse, to get out of there, but the honesty in the old man's eyes stopped him. It'd been a slow process becoming human again, he was a far cry from the man he'd been before, but it would be callus of him to decline even though he already owed him his gratitude once already.

Hesitantly, he agreed, desperately hoping that he hadn't gotten in over his head.


	2. Railroad Tracks

A/N: I researched the details for this chapter as much as possible to try to keep it accurate, but where I couldn't find details, I went with my head-canon. As always though, this is just for fun, and to provide an enjoyable read =)

And to the lovely Guest who commented, I wish I could send you a proper thank you! Your comment was greatly encouraging to me! I'm not sure how much Steve will be appearing, mostly in flashbacks, and there probably won't be any pairings, Bucky is kind of on his own away from everyone in this story, but I'll keep the Romanodgers in mind;)

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><p><strong><em><span>Chapter 2: Railroad Tracks<span>_**

**"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."** –George Santayana

Railroads were once the back bone of this country. The iron horse replacing steeds of flesh and blood, outracing them on their parallel metal ties, and heralding in the next century. As a kid, if one wanted to travel any great distance, railroad was the common means of getting there. During the Depression, hopping train was a way to escape, to leave behind the shame of failure, or to try to lighten the burden of feeding the family. And even when times changed, stealing the glory of the iron horse, the imprint it left upon America was undeniable.

Trains are also irrevocably entwined with my death, the death of Bucky Barnes, which consequentially connects to the Winter Soldier's birth. Figurative inroads forged a path into the trapped soul underneath the assassin when Steve awoke an old name. "Bucky?" Setting a course that would spiral out of control, beyond the predictions of HYDRA or SHIELD.

Tracking is a skill that only the best can master, but tracking a historical ghost is even more so. Yet I was a ghost, so who better to track my past than me?

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><p>...oOo...<p>

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><p><em> Shuddering, the body of the hellicarrier crumbled around them, equipment crashing through the fractured hull. Engines failed, sparks flickering through the smoke fogged air. Listing heavily, it lost altitude, beyond saving.<em>

_ "Then finish it."_

_ Crouching over his target, the Winter Soldier wanted this man's death. No, needed it. This mission needed to end. A violent, frenzied, rage poured through him, overwhelming his senses, confusing them, making him desperate, a completely foreign concept brought by this man's words._

_ His face bore the marks of the Winter Soldier's assault, right eye closed tight, and skin coloring where bruises were appearing and beginning to swell, blood seeping from the cuts. His handiwork. But his beaten enemy, this blonde soldier, didn't fight him, didn't seem to care that he was about to die. Blue eyes filled with a contented acceptance of his fate and voice soft with a promise. A promise that the Winter Soldier couldn't understand._

_ "'Cause I'm with you till the end of the line."_

_ I know him. The familiarity washed over him with a shot of horror._

_ A scrawny kid, fists raised, brave words dropping from his lips, though he already sported two black eyes and was about to get a split lip. Too small and weak, but with the heart of a lion. _

_ Yet he was surrendering. When he could never run from a fight._

_ His body hung, suspended, fist ready to bring the final blow that would kill his target, caught between the anvil of his mission and the hammer of his mind. What had he done? Phantom pain burned behind his eyes, an automatic reaction, a reflexive programing that had become ingrained. What was he doing? _

_ He wasn't supposed to feel! There was only action. No mercy, no hesitation, just a swift kill._

_ The Asset. A mindless machine. A gun._

_ Weapons have no emotion, no capability to feel the sensations that fuel normal human functions. Such things only hindered him. It was a flaw in the design. To deviate in any form was forbidden. All that mattered was his mission._

_ **"Your work has been a gift…"**_

_ He struggled to re-establish right and wrong, to find where the borders were. The mission demanded he kill the target, eliminate the problem, purify the world. His target. My friend._

_ The word broke from the haze in his mind, his flesh hand clenching on the fabric, as the floor gave out beneath them. Instinct taking over, his left arm caught a fallen support, body reacting though his thoughts whirled madly, accepting the strain as his body dangled over the distant river._

_ What have I done?_

_ The question wandered inarticulate through his mind as Captain America fell away from him._

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><p>...oOo...<p>

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><p>Coming to, the night was dark, still, quiet, holding nothing more than the fading effects of his mind's terrors.<p>

The echo of raindrops pattered against the windows, the quiet voices of crickets sounding distant underneath. Supporting him, pillowing his body, the mattress jarred his senses, reminding him where he was. It felt strange, unnatural, a luxury that he had gone without for more years than he could count. He had to wonder how he had ever fallen asleep on it.

Sitting up, pulling at the thin fabric of his t-shirt, Bucky's hand strayed to his left shoulder. The cotton polyester fabric slid over the smooth metal, snagging where wires had not been smoothed down like they should've been. He had tried to cover up the socket, using non-conductive materials to prevent the nerve-like wires from paining him and to close it somewhat. But really, he needed an expert to look at it, although that certainly wasn't going to happen.

As long as it remained covered, though, and he didn't wear any shirts paler than a light grey, it would be passable. No one would see the metal plates on his side, or the raw, open, socket where the arm was supposed to attach. And if no one knew about it, no one would realize who he was.

Leaving the bed, he went to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass, skin ghostly translucent in his reflection with dark hollows for eyes. Dead, void of emotion, dangerous. The eyes of an assassin. Regulating his breathing, creating a fine patch of mist on the window pane, he watched the night, the chill leeching away his warmth.

Every house was quiet in this little hamlet of a town, and his gut instinct told him that all was as it appeared. Quiet, serene, slumbering in the innocent dreams that he could never have, his memories too full of blood to allow such peace.

Nothing to mar the stillness. Nothing to put him on his guard aside from his own fear.

He was the only danger in the vicinity tonight.

Bucky hadn't intended to stay. The city offered a better selection of hide-a-ways and mouse holes, more opportunities to disappear. Maybe even waken some more of his past by wandering around his childhood haunts, if there was anything to recognize that is. The world had changed so much since then. While the world hadn't left him behind in the same way it had left Steve, he hardly knew what it was like to be a normal human being anymore. Brooklyn, for all its changes, would at least be able to conceal him until he reached a decision of what his next move would be.

Dinner had been a curious affair. Bucky had reluctantly followed Eli up to the living quarters above after the shop had closed, and been introduced to the old man's family. Aside from the granddaughter that he had already seen, Eli had a grown daughter (the teen's mother), another granddaughter, and two great nephews. The three younger kids had openly stared at him, intimidated into being mute, and Bucky hadn't bothered to break the silence. Not surprisingly, the only two at the table who attempted any sort of conversation was Eli and his daughter. After dinner had been cleaned up, Eli had taken him to the living room, and had sat there talking until Bucky had no choice but to accept the old man's hospitality and stay the night.

Bucky had already determined that he wouldn't impose on them for another night.

Abandoning the window, shoving his bleak thoughts back into the deepest recess of his mind, he cast a restless glance around the room, feeling confined by the normalcy of it, and withdrew his knife. Carefully maneuvering around the room, as it was a little cramped for such activities, he fell into the familiar motions of the routine he had created to strengthen his right arm and adjust to fighting with one arm. Wielding the weapon expertly, striking at invisible foes, the tension gradually seeped out of him.

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><p>...oOo...<p>

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><p><em> Carefully lowering him to the ground, the Soldier assessed the other man, eyes searching his face, feeling the heavy, wet, materiel of his vest rise with the intake of air and fall again as he released the breath slowly. Waiting for a sign of life from his ex-target. His right arm throbbed dully, half numb from his dive in the Potomac, and his left arm vibrated, almost imperceptibly, as it dealt with the water that had entered its systems.<em>

_ Water trickled from the corner of the blonde man's mouth, throat flashing as he drew breath. Alive, but unconscious, and unlikely to die from his wounds as the Soldier hadn't hit any critical points. The second target he'd failed to kill._

_ Glancing around, taking in his surroundings for the first time, the Soldier drew another steadying breath. He couldn't stay here. Too risky. Too easy to be found. _

_ But he had needed to make sure his friend was alive. _

_ Friend. The only name he could give, although his mind warred against him, reminding him that this was his target._

_ Leaving his onetime friend, satisfied that the man would live, he gave the only promise he could as he walked away._

_ I know you._

_ That was all he could give, the only thing he could hope to claim. At the moment, everything was too tentative, his hold on himself too precarious. Chances were high that HYDRA would catch him again, and swipe him, but he was determined to fight them, to retain his freedom. He had deliberately disobeyed orders, failed to kill his target, and then saved him. There was one last thing he needed to do though._

_ He still had to ensure that this man would be safe._

_ Disappearing into the underbrush, he put distance between them. Sunlight glittered off the metallic limb, leaves brushing across his face as he forged his way through the thickets, wet hair clinging to his skin every time he ducked his head. Smoke tainted the air, acidic, pungent, clogging one's airways. The thin wail of sirens, shrill and distressed, seemed to announce the destruction of SHIELD. _

_ Not his concern. _

_ A strange urge pulled sharply in his chest, hardly more than a faint stirring, but it drove his actions, removing all possibility of losing control as it rose persistently above HYDRA's commands. A need to protect, to guard this man against the world, and it only grew stronger the further he walked. _

_ And he would. He just couldn't do it by standing at his side._

_ HYDRA would be searching for the Asset. Numerous others would be searching for Captain America (the name came unexpectedly clear to his mind, and he knew that it belonged to the man). Regardless of who found him though, the Soldier couldn't be found with him, just as he had to make sure that the right party would find him._

_ Selecting a vantage point, one that gave him a decent view of the lay of the area, he noted the locations where rescue teams and other assorted people would most likely come from. Settling himself in for the wait, concealed from sight, his body fell into a state similar to when he prepared to commit an assassination. Mind automatically ticking off details of importance._

_ Check weapons. Assure their performance._

_ Fingers swiftly locating his blades, he removed the one next to his neck, another which was concealed at the wrist, two from his belt, and the final one in his right boot. A meager supply, but enough. No more than could be expected after his battle with Captain America. Any guns he'd held had been lost._

_ Laying the blades within arm's reach, he set them on a flat, well-lit surface to dry. He couldn't hope for a change of weapons, or for any incoming resources for that matter. He was on his own for this mission. But even without access to a sniper's arsenal, or any long range weapons, there wouldn't be any complications when it came to making a kill. He would be able to reach anyone long before they saw the Captain. A split second to use his knife at the right spot, or less than five seconds with his bionic arm, that was all it'd take and the threat would be gone._

_ Assess injuries. Make sure he wasn't critically wounded._

_ Gently flexing and stretching his muscles, the minimal movement achieved its purpose in relaying the tally of the bruises he had sustained. Mere irritants, hardly enough to pain or hinder him. The worst of the bruising was upon his mid-section, where he'd been pinned, with the possibility of his lower ribs also being cracked. Shifting gingerly, wary of too much movement in his crouched position, his left hand probed the area carefully, learning the extent of the bruising._

_ Attention going to his right arm next, he carefully twisted it, probing its limits, and asserting that it'd been dislocated. Easily corrected. Gritting his teeth, a fierce grimace crossing his features, he snapped it back into place without pain. It was basic first aid to relocate a dislocated limb, similar to the simple maintenance he knew to repair the prosthetic, and he would've handled it without flinching if the sensation of putting it back in the socket wasn't so disconcerting. _

_ Physical assessment done, he ran his eyes over the metal plates of his left arm. It hummed quietly, inaudibly in his lap, but the sensory feedback informed him that its systems were lagging, struggling to compute from the amount of water it'd been exposed to. While built to resist the varying degrees of rain, and general exposure from the elements, it hadn't been geared towards a total dunking as his missions had never involved the need to dive after a victim. Especially not after the strain of fighting the Captain._

_ Doing the little he could with it, irritated anger flashed through him. With only five small blades and his left arm half incapacitated, he couldn't hope to do much. But he'd been in worse scrapes, the main difference was the fact that his left arm had been fully operational and he'd had a team to back him up._

_ Eyes returning to the Captain's location, he waited, alert, mind falling back into a blank state of waiting. A state that, in truth, was abnormal. Normally his mission required mental activity, absorbing details of his settings, calculating possible outcomes, and narrowing it all down to the simplest method to kill the target. For this man, he only needed to provide cover, and keep him safe. _

_ The other man hadn't moved, his unconscious form still, unmoved from the position that the Soldier had left him in. Gradually, indiscernibly, the air had cleared as the sour tang of smoke dispersed, and the afternoon progressed relentlessly. Distantly, sirens continued to wail, rising and falling in volume in response to the extent of the damage from the Triskelion and the hellicarriers, a constant to mark the hours, though the Soldier ignored them. The sounds meant nothing to him._

_ Under the three hour mark, the Soldier slipped the knives back into their places, lithely getting to his feet, ready for action, as a rescue team swept the river front. Scanning the faces, his gaze stopped, studying, on a face that looked vaguely familiar. He didn't know the man, but he'd seen him before._

_ Winged jetpack. Tearing the wings. Letting him fall. _

_ He was the African American who was the Captain's companion._

_ Stalling, eyes trained on the Captain's friend, a thought prickled at the back of his mind, and he let the memory rectify itself. Steve. This man had called the Captain by this other name, Steve. Another memory drove out the first one. A small one. Hardly worth much, but accounting for something. He remembered saying Steve's name. The name Steve Rodgers meant something to him._

_ Satisfied that the Captain was safe, he swiftly left his hideout, putting the river behind him. It was time to face the questions the Captain had awakened. But first, he needed to restock his weapons._

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><p>...oOo...<p>

* * *

><p><em> Throwing an upper cut and slashing the throat, the Soldier watched coldly, disinterestedly, as mingled emotions flickered across the man's face and settled on surprise, before kicking the body aside. Slipping the knife back into its spot, he knelt next to his kill and extracted the victim's wallet, removing the money he found within, and returned everything to its place to abstain suspicion. The sixth time he'd done that.<em>

_ Casualties were insignificant. _

_ Finding and breaking into the D.C. HYDRA base had been relatively easy. With all the panic over SHIELD's collapse, and the revelation of their secrets, a majority of the agents and personnel had fled, but that didn't mean that the Soldier could spare the chance of letting anyone escape. _

_ Everyone that he encountered, he killed. Simple as that. He couldn't afford to have his location given away._

_ He would be doing that soon enough, but on his own terms. _

_ Entering the armory, he noted the sufficient amount of ammunition with satisfaction. It wouldn't be of much use to carry around, but it would achieve his purpose in rendering the base useless. Turning to look over the meager assortment of guns, he made his selection carefully. As this was only a temporary base, it didn't hold the full arsenal of weapons that a fully operational one would, mostly providing the necessary gear to reload and complete the mission. In this case, that was exactly what he needed._

_ Escaping back onto the streets, the Soldier disappeared. Behind him, scarcely a few minutes had passed before the roof of the base fell in, due to tactfully placed detonators. Once the excitement over the Triskelion passed, SHIELD and HYDRA would find a delightful puzzle awaiting them._

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><p>…oOo…<p>

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><p>Dawn, or what there was of it, was several hours along its course by the time Eli's daughter knocked to let him know that breakfast was ready. The clouds had finally emptied, but lingered, grey and woolen, blocking the sun.<p>

"James, there's breakfast if you'd like some. You're welcome to come and join us."

Caught up in exercising, he had moved to the door with a stealthy, cat-like, tread before he had even been aware of what he was doing, knife poised to attack. Hastily sheathing it, wearily rubbing a hand over his jaw, ruffling the facial hair with his fingers, he slumped next to the door. Staring disconsolately at the opposite wall, inwardly cringing and silently cursing himself, he dimly heard the sounds of the family rousing. Groggy complaints and ear-grating whines came from the kids' rooms, the youngsters grudging their sleep and resisting the call of breakfast. But Eli's daughter would have none of it, and soon the petulant voices turned into feet thundering to the table.

Fingering the knife handle, shaking his head in disgust at how his control had lapsed, he shoved himself away from the door. Glancing in the small mirror above the dresser, he straightened his hair with his hand as much as he could. It was best if he left as soon as possible. He couldn't put these innocent lives in danger. Either from himself, or those coming after him.

It would be poor repayment, indeed, if he returned their charity with death.

As it was, he couldn't hope to pay them back.

Pushing his bitter thoughts to the side, he finished making himself presentable for breakfast. The clothes he had on would have to do. Though he'd lost count of the number of days he'd worn them, they were the only set of clothes he had. Maintaining his appearance hadn't been high on his list, though, during his run. A poor sot was easily overlooked compared to a lethal, well-groomed, assassin.

As a result, last night had been his first real shower in months. Unable to do anything to make himself look more respectable, he settled for at least showing a clean face.

His beard needed trimming, he mused critically, eyeing the length of it. If he remembered, he'd have to ask for scissors or a razor before he left.

Another favor to ask of Eli. Another favor he couldn't repay.

Meticulously making the bed before leaving the room, a small smile crossed his face as he remembered how his mother used to nag at him. As a kid, it'd been the bane of his life having to make his bed in the morning. And though it was little in way of trying to repay for the Gibson's hospitality, his mother would've been pleased to see that her son retained some of the manners she had instilled in him.

Joining the family at the table, he quietly filled his plate.

Brimming with energy, the novelty of having a stranger present having worn off the night before, the boys mercilessly plied Bucky with questions. Giving monosyllabic answers in return, of yes or no, he ate without interference, although they continued to try to pry it out of him. Undeterred by his unspoken refusal, the questions became wildly outrageous, to the point where they were no longer questions, but instead extreme fabrications with no hope of being true.

Unlike her cousins, the younger granddaughter kept her mouth shut. Wide, bashful glances were often directed at him, and at times it seemed like she wanted to add to the conversation but held back due to Bucky's presence.

Cleaning his plate, unconcerned by the kids exuberance, in truth, being faintly amused by their enthusiasm, he carried it to the kitchen where Eli's daughter was. "What should I do with my plate?" he asked hesitantly, glancing at her.

Taking it with a slight smile, she took it back to the table and set it before the boys. "It's their turn to do the dishes. They'll take care of it." At their dismayed looks, she gave them a look of her own.

Watching the exchange blankly, he waited a moment before speaking again, using it to compose his thoughts. "Where's Eli?"

"I believe Dad is down in the shop," she offered.

Murmuring his thanks, he followed her suggestion. Descending the stairs, with a small amount of relief filling him, reassured to be on the ground floor where escape would be easier. Stopping on the landing, looking over the dim interior, he eliminated the chance of finding the old man from above. With only the reading lamps on, the shop felt different, sleepy, the grey sky outside enforcing the mood. The kind of day that one spent wandering the labyrinth of words exploring fantastical worlds, curled on a couch, in a nest of blankets, with a hot beverage in a nearby mug. Searching for Eli among the bookshelves, steps soft so as not to disturbed the quiet atmosphere, he found the old man comfortably settled in one of the reading nooks.

"Sir?" he said lowly, by way of announcing his presence.

Glancing up slowly, his eyes leaving the page with difficulty, Eli greeted him brightly. "Morning! Did you sleep well?" he asked pleasantly.

"Well enough," Bucky replied simply. "Your daughter said I would find you here."

"Most mornings usually," Eli confirmed affably. "But you're not leaving already are you? The shop doesn't open till ten, and you're welcome to hang around until it does."

"I don't want to be in the way," Bucky answered quietly. "And I'd like to repay you for your hospitality, if I could, before leaving."

Smiling quiescently, humor lighting his eyes, the old man shook his head. "There's no need. You were my guest. Although, come to think of it," Eli remarked thoughtfully. "There is something you could do." Shooting a scrutinizing look at Bucky's one arm, he asked slowly, "How are you with lifting bulky objects?"

* * *

><p>...oOo...<p>

* * *

><p><em> Over a week later found the Soldier paying his fare into the Smithsonian.<em>

_ Tucking deeper into the secondhand overcoat he'd bought from a thrift shop, the top of the collar brushing against his ears, exhaustion numbed his body as the Soldier passed through the revered halls of the museum. Head down, shoulders curved tensely, hands safely hidden in his pockets, he watched through lowered eyes as he approached the Captain America exhibit. _

_ A week of roaming the streets and poor sleeping had driven him here. The confusing array of images that had materialized behind his eyelids when he tried sleeping had haunted him, tearing his mind in two as he struggled to make sense of who he was. Making it harder to get up each day and move on to a new spot as he lived the rough, forgive-less, life of the homeless. Making it harder for him to keep control._

_ Deciding that it was past time to take action, he sought to pacify the demons._

_ Weaving through the crowds, avoiding eye contact, and never wavering from his course, he refrained from admitting to any of the emotions that longed to surface. His training would ensure that his face remained blank._

_ Spotting his target, he adjusted his course slightly, pace unchanging in speed, as a cold knot formed in his stomach and his eyes skimmed over the first words._

_ It was the wrong place. The wrong time. There were too many people around. Too many witnesses. Too many opportunities for someone to connect the dots. But he had to see the truth._

…

[**A Fallen Comrade**

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, depravation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rodgers, now Captain America.

Reunited, Barnes and Rodgers led Captain America's newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes' marksmanship was invaluable as Rodgers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.

Bucky Barnes

1916-1944]

…

_ Jaw clenching, gaze fixated on the picture of his face, a face that was so many things he wasn't, a long forgotten voice, that had once been his, echoed in his ear._

_ "The 107th, Sgt. James Barnes shipping out for England tomorrow."_

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><p>\\/\\

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><p>AN: Thanks for reading, hopefully it wasn't confusing, and hopefully you enjoyed it! The next chapter should be up faster than this one. Until then!


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